


A Voice to be Heard

by MaskOfConfusion



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Altmer Nightingale, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Epic Bromance, Fantasy Racism, Humor, Mercer Frey is lame TM, Nightingale Character, Paarthurnax is a Good Boy, Shenanigans, Sorta Main Plotline, more to be added - Freeform, nord dragonborn - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2020-04-05 03:24:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19040167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskOfConfusion/pseuds/MaskOfConfusion
Summary: The date is 4E, 201, the 19th of Last Seed. News of the dragon attack at Helgen travels fast, spreading panic, doubt, and superstition all across Skyrim. The abrupt entrance of the World Eater himself is apparently not enough to pull everyone’s heads out from where they’re lodged and tensions are now at an all-time high. A civil war is going on, and Skyrim is one more catastrophic event away from total collapse. But, while the Dragonborn is fulfilling his end of the prophecy, a certain Altmer is dragged off on a revenge mission with Mercer Frey. We start with him, but paths have a funny way of crossing at the right moments.





	1. The Beginning of the End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! This is my first time posting something, so that's neat. I hope anyone still in this fandom enjoys. As you can tell, I'm very salty about Mercer, so he gets no chance for redemption. Rip. Please leave any thoughts in the comments, as I can use any help I can get! Enjoy!

 

The streets of Riften, as always, were dismal but bustling. Maul stood near the North entrance to the city, waiting to intimidate any fresh faced newcomers, and Sapphire was lurking around the Bee and the Barb, ready to con a man out of his month’s earnings at the drop of a hat. All welcome sights, all familiar. Even the ever present beggars hanging around the marketplace sent a wave of nostalgia, as sad as that may be.

 

He was glad to be home.

 

He had just entered the city, weary from his most recent contract, a job Mercer decided was too below his pay grade, a trip to an East Empire warehouse near Solitude to follow up on a lead. Something about a slip-up and a sneaky lizard named Gulum-Ei that tied back into the recent Goldenglow situation. And he did end up finding information. A lot. The Argonian had mentioned a ‘Karliah’ and how she murdered the previous Guild Master, which raises the question: why hadn’t anyone mentioned this before? Whatever, he was too tired to care about conspiracies, however big or plausible they may be.

 

His heavy, Guild issued boots made a constant, steady rhythm on the wooden walkway and, for once, he did nothing to stifle it. He briefly entertained the idea of staying at the local inn rather than make the short walk back to the Ragged Flagon, but decided against it. He’d been away from his familiar bed for too long, and, to be honest, he much preferred the company of thieves. That had much to say for the citizens of Riften, in his opinion.

 

The Altmer sighed at the screech of the ‘secret’ entrance that led down to the home of the infamous Thieves Guild. Either people genuinely did not know that it was there, or they were too afraid to investigate, because somehow no one had wandered in as of yet. Or maybe they were too willing to recruit (Brynjolf stop asking people to join, we don’t have the money) and anyone who had any interest were already members. He lazily climbed down the ladder that opened into the cistern and jumped down the last few rungs, landing with a heavy thud and kicking up dust. He was just about to make a beeline for his bed when-

 

“Ferion!”

 

Ferion slowed to a halt and turned his head to tiredly look at whoever had called his name.

 

A cheerful Brynjolf jogged up to him, and clapped a congratulatory hand on his shoulder. “Welcome back, lad.” He smiled. “I trust you were successful? Did you find anything about the buyer?”

 

“Oh, Bryn, hey.” he greeted. “Is Mercer around? I should report back what I found as soon as possible, I don’t think he’d be too happy if I waited ‘till tomorrow.” Though he very much would like to wait, seeing as he’d just gotten back after walking for hours in the gods forsaken cold of Skyrim. The only foreseeable upside of being a Nord, and it’d almost be worth it.

 

Brynjolf nodded in understanding and started leading the way to the Cistern. “Mercer’s been stewing over that bill of sale you picked up at Goldenglow, hasn’t left his desk.” He pushed open the door for Ferion and stepped aside. “He’s been awaiting your return, lad. Best not disappoint.” With a grin, he walked away, leaving Ferion to the mercy of whatever mood Mercer had put himself in that day, only now there was no telling what this new information would stir in him.

 

Mercer was still a mystery to him. He’d been hesitant to let him join in the first place, but then sends him on one of their hardest jobs that even Vex failed at? And when he succeeded, still didn’t trust him? Although, if what Gulum-Ei said was true, then he had every reason to not trust him, seeing as one of his closest friends murdered his Guild Master. Maybe he judged Mercer a little prematurely.

 

Ferion walked up to Mercer’s desk, making sure his footsteps were audible to avoid having to call attention to himself.

 

Mercer looked up as he approached and sat straighter, more attentive. “Did you get anything from Gulum-Ei about our buyer?” His voice was gruff, probably from yelling at new recruits all day.

 

“He said something about a Karliah having purchased it?” He offered hesitantly. If what the Argonian said was true, then this was a sensitive subject. A subject he would rather avoid, given the chance. But Auri-El was not so kind.

 

The current Guild Master’s eyes widened and his fists clenched in anger. “It can’t be. It just-” He roughly stood from where he sat at his desk, the force pushing his chair back with a clatter against the stone floor. “I hoped to never have to cross paths with her again.”

 

“Maybe it’s someone else? Gulum-Ei could have lied?”

“No.” he muttered. “It all makes sense. No one else would have known how to manipulate the Guild and our clients like this. If there’s anyone capable of tearing apart our organization, it’s her.” He seethed. “She’s done it before.”

 

Alright, so, evidently this _was_ a sensitive subject.

 

“What do you mean by that? What’d she do?” _Please don’t say she killed the previous Guild Master._

 

Mercer’s face was filled with cold fury, a kind of pure rage that sent off alarm bells in Ferion’s head. “She murdered my predecessor in cold blood, she betrayed all of us and destroyed everything the Guild stood for!”  He looked down at his desk and the scattered papers filled with leads and maps. “We were partners. We were together for every heist, watched each other’s backs… I knew her every skill and technique, I’m the only one who stands a chance of catching her and making her pay for what she’s done.” His brows furrowed in frustration. “If only we knew where she was…”

 

Ferion perked up, suddenly remembering a (probably important) piece of information. “Oh! Uh, Gulum-Ei said she mentioned something about where she’d be.” He tugged his hood down and ran a hand through his hair in thought. “I think he said _she_ said: ‘Where the end began’, or something. Damn, I don’t remember, does that sound familiar?” He glanced over at Mercer and was surprised to find him staring intently at him, leaned forward and way in his personal space. “Um-”

 

“Are you _absolutely_ sure that’s what she said?” He demanded.

 

At Ferion’s confused nod he stood up and started gathering various things from his desk. He grabbed maps, his travel pack, and finally, strapped his sword to his hip, turning again to face the very puzzled Elf. “There’s only one place that could be. Where she murdered Gallus, where she betrayed the entire Guild, Snow Veil Sanctum.” He threw his bag over his shoulder. “We have to get there and stop her before she disappears again.”

 

Wait.

 

“What do you mean ‘we’?” He stuttered out, following after Mercer who was making his way to the exit to the Flagon.

 

“I mean _we_ -” He gestured between the two of them. “-are going to Snow Veil Sanctum, and _we_ are going to kill Karliah.”

 

Oh. Of course.

 

Wait.

“ _What?_ ”

***

 

What is it with Skyrim and damn _snow_ ? Oh, and _of course_ Karliah’s weird hiding place would be in _Winterhold._ Of all places, honestly. Why Mercer had decided to bring _him_ on his crazy revenge mission, he had no idea. The more obvious(smart) decision would have been to bring Brynjolf or Vex, _Gods,_ even Sapphire would have been a better choice. But no, thrice damned Mercer thought: _‘Hey, what if I bring Ferion! That’s a great idea! He and I are totally pals!’_

 

Ferion’s inner dialogue continued this way for quite a while as he trudged through the heavy snow. His boots were thoroughly soaked through and his patience was wearing thin, the only thing breaking him out of his cold-driven anger was the sight of Mercer standing at the entrance of the ruins. His weathered black armor was a stark contrast to the bright white snow, and if he was making any attempt to be unnoticable, he was failing.

 

“It’s about time you showed up.”

 

As always, Mercer’s greetings were the highlight of his trip.

 

“You know, it’s times we share like these that really give me a reason to get up in the morning, sir.” Maybe it was the cold, the long trek, or both, but Ferion really could not bring himself to care about watching his words around Mercer. He really just did not have time for all this revenge business, and divines know why he got dragged into it in the first place.

 

“Watch yourself, Elf.” he growled out. “We’re a long way from Riften, wouldn’t want something to go amiss.”

 

_Abort mission. I repeat, abort mission._

 

“Of course, sir.” he affirmed. “Won’t happen again.”

 

Mercer scowled and pushed himself off from the wall he was leaning on, leading the way to the entrance of the ruins. “While you were taking your sweet time getting here, I scouted the ruins and confirmed that Karliah is inside.” He kicked aside an empty bottle on the ground, his stride harsh and impatient.

 

_Sweet time my ass._

 

Ferion feigned interest and took the bait that Mercer had so conveniently placed for him. “Really? Did you see her go in?”

 

“No.” he snapped. “I found her horse. Lucky for us, I took care of it. She won’t be escaping on it any time soon.” He gestured a hand at the large metal door that led into the sanctum. “Now lead the way, I want to catch her while she’s distracted.”

 

“Alright, let’s go.” he took a step forward, but stopped in his tracks. He turned back around to face Mercer, perplexed. “Wait. You-” he pointed at Mercer, “-want _me_ -” another slow point at himself, “-to lead?” _This man makes less sense every second I’m around him, I swear. Divines help me._

 

Mercer had his hand rested on the sword attached to his hip, posing an intimidating figure. He stood tall, though barely taller than the Elf, and sneered. “I was under the impression that _I_ was in charge, not you.” A step forward. “And _I_ say, lead the way. Do I make myself clear?”

 

Auri-El, this man is unstable. Why didn’t he try harder to get him to bring someone, _anyone_ else with him. Gods, he could be at the Guild with Brynjolf, or drinking with Vex. He’d even rather be bartering with Delvin than be here with this vengeance thirsty maniac. _Maybe you’re overreacting. He’s just going through a rough time right now, that’s it._

 

“Okay, but if I set off any traps, It’s your fault.” Ferion pondered a bit as he inspected the heavy door. “So, Karliah must have been pretty strong if she had to fight both you _and_ Gallus.”

 

“She was a coward. She waited for us to arrive and struck from the shadows.” he spit out. “She caught Gallus in the throat with an arrow, I didn’t even have time to draw my blade as her second arrow found its place in my chest.” Mercer’s knuckles were bone white, clenching the pommel of his sword in blind fury. “I was lucky. She missed my heart by mere inches. I was able to stagger away from the ruins, but my vision began to blur, and I realized that the _bitch_ poisoned her arrows.”

 

Ferion pulled out a lockpick from his pouch and started fiddling with the lock on the door, tilting his head to the side to still hear Mercer. “So… let me get this straight. She _shot_ you in the _chest_ with an arrow-” he looked back at Mercer, continuing at his annoyed nod. “-a _poisoned_ arrow?” Another nod. “How are you even _alive?_ ”

 

“I told you. I got _lucky._ ” he ground out.

 

“Alright, divines, whatever- _mother fucker!”_ Ferion swore as he broke another lockpick and slammed a gloved fist into the door. “Does this door even _open_?”

 

Mercer walked over to the door and shouldered Ferion out of the way. “Stand aside, Elf. I don’t know what the fuss is, it just takes a little bit of know-how and skill.” Before Ferion could even see his hands move, the lock clicked and the door screeched open. “After you.”

 

***

 

“Ah, one of the infamous Nordic puzzle doors. How quaint.”

 

Of course. As if endless traps and hallways full of draugr weren’t enough, they were now faced with a door they had no way to open. Perfect. And for some reason, Mercer didn’t seem deterred in the slightest.

 

“Don’t we need a special claw to get it open?” Ferion had no idea why Mercer seemed so smug. The only way to get to Karliah was blocked by a gods damned ancient puzzle door. Nothing about that was good.

 

“Normally you do, and I’m sure Karliah has already done away with it by now.” He explained while strolling up to the door. “But a little known fact is that they have a weakness. You just have to know how to exploit it.”

 

_What?_

 

The rings on the door spun until the symbols all matched, the door sinking down into the stone floor. “Karliah’s close, I’m sure of it. We need to get moving before she catches wind of us, if she hasn’t already.”

 

They reached another door, fortunately this time it wasn’t locked, and they took a moment to pause. Which was probably a good idea. Ferion needed a good psyche up, he was not ready to face down a murderous Dunmer, not at all.

 

He readied a fireball in his palm as Mercer drew his Dwarven sword, and took his spot in front once again. “What do we do when we actually _find_ Karliah? If she was on par with you _and_ Gallus, I don’t really like my chances.”

 

Mercer scoffed lowly, the sound bouncing off the walls eerily. “You leave that to me.”

 

“You know, that’s not really that reassuring.” He remarked.

 

Ferion pushed the door open and stepped inside, thoughts occupied with what-ifs. What if Karliah was already gone? What if she was waiting in the shadows, about to strike, like she did with Gallus? There were too many possibilities, and he was just starting to realize how unprepared they both were for this situation. If anything, they should’ve brought the whole Guild, not just two people, one of them being a newer recruit. What was Mercer thinking-

 

Ferion’s thoughts were abruptly cut off by a searing _pain_ in his shoulder. He gasped and stumbled, reaching for the source of the pain. His fingers had just brushed against jagged wood when everything slowed down. _Arrow._ His vision blurred and his knees buckled, sending him crashing to the floor with a clatter, the metal of his sword grating harshly on stone. _Poison arrow._

 

Ferion attempted to say something, _anything_ , to tell Mercer to leave, get help, but-

 

_He couldn’t._

 

Nothing would come out. Fear seized him, clawed at him from inside. They couldn’t do this, Karliah was going to kill them here and nobody would even know. _Gods_ , why did he come here? This was Mercer’s mission, not his. And  now he was going to die here.

 

Through his pain filled haze, Ferion could make out Mercer stepping in front of him, that strange confidence not ever having left him. With his sword held in a lazy grip at his side, and stance not at all ready for a fight, he seemed _relaxed_ . Not once did he look down at Ferion, he didn’t even _say_ anything.

 

_What was he doing?_

 

“Come on, Karliah!” he shouted into the shadows. “Just like old times, isn’t it? Except this time, I’ll kill you before your arrow finds its mark.” His voice was filled with venom, lowering into a sneer that gave Ferion chills.

 

A hooded figure stepped out of the shadows on the opposite side of the room. Bow drawn and ready to fire, she announced herself, and spoke as Mercer’s gaze quickly shifted to her.

 

“Did you want to test that little theory, Mercer?” Her smoothly accented voice rang out like a bell in the large room, echoing off the walls. “It’s been a long time since we’ve last seen each other,” She glanced at the downed Altmer. “But I assure you I _haven’t_ gotten rusty.”

 

Mercer went on to ‘congratulate’ Karliah on her near dismantlement of Guild operations, buying Goldenglow and funding Honningbrew. His tone was mocking, clearly aware of how he had the upper hand.

 

“You always were a quick study, Karliah. Gallus’ pet project.”

 

“Apparently not quick enough.” She lamented, voice turning somber. “Otherwise Gallus would still be alive.”

Ferion almost missed it, the quiet words almost drowned out by the blood rushing in his ears, but he didn’t. They now stood out with shocking clarity. What could she possibly mean by that? She’s talking as if she wasn’t responsible, as if she tried to _stop_ it.

 

“Gallus would still be _alive_ if he kept his nose out of my business!” Mercer barked. “All he had to do was look the other way! Maybe then he’d still be here to hold your hand, little _girl._ ”

 

“We took an _oath_ , Mercer!” Karliah cried. “We took an oath as Nightingales! How could you so easily forget that? How could you expect Gallus to ignore your methods?”

 

Mercer stepped forward angrily, raising his sword into a proper stance. “Enough! I’m done trying to convince you! If you miss Gallus so much, why don’t I take you to him!”

 

Karliah interrupted him, reaching into the bag at her waist and pulling out a bottle. “I’m no fool, Mercer.” She murmured. “Crossing blades with you would be a death sentence. But believe you me, the next time we meet, you will _not_ make it out alive. I _promise._ ”

 

A mere moment after the bottle met Karliah’s lips, she vanished, but her voice still echoed through the room, leaving behind a feeling of impending doom.

 

Ferion felt himself fading in and out of consciousness. He desperately willed himself to stay awake, grasping at any awareness he could. Frankly, it’d be easier to just fall asleep, but he couldn’t. How could he? Mercer had just severely incriminated himself, _admitting_ to killing Gallus! And now he was stuck here, paralyzed, with a homicidal maniac. He attempted to move. His arms, legs, _anything_ , but his entire body felt like it was made out of lead.

 

_Oh Gods, why did he come here?!_

 

He frantically looked up at the sudden scuff of boots on stone, icy terror gripping him when Mercer stood over his prone body. Mercer stared down at him, and he felt sick from the look on his face. A look of  bitter victory, poison, and _pity._

 

“ _How poetic._ ”

 


	2. The Spinning of Webs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy gods, it's been a long time. I'm glad a few people are reading this stupidly self indulgent story, but also confused? Why are y'all letting this happen? It's a mess. But thanks! I'm finally back lmao  
> Enjoy this really unrefined chapter, I suppose. And congrats on still being in this basically dead fandom :D  
> Hand over the k u d o s

 

The wind was howling, the snow was falling, and Skyrim was just as bone-chillingly cold as always. Though sometimes warmer than places such as Winterhold or Windhelm, Riverwood was no exception to the harsh weather that seemed to be Skyrim’s most outstanding feature.More often than not, freezing winds came down from the mountain and disrupted the calm streams and merry atmosphere of the little town. Most residents spend these days warming their bodies with copious amounts of mead. 

It was on one of these nights that found the Sleeping Giant Inn filled to capacity. It was packed with inebriated patrons, fed-up guards that had decided that it wasn’t worth guarding the gate while this cold, and a few workers, various degrees of annoyed. 

In the back corner of the inn sat a Nord. He was heavily armored, wearing a full set of heavy, intricate armor, made of smooth, dark metal. Leaning against the table beside him was a sword, long, meant to be wielded with both hands, and definitely sharp. The man was hardly out of place, being armed to the teeth was seen a necessity in Skyrim, but he _was_ sitting in a crowded drinking hall without a drink. So if one were to ask, he’d have to come up with a pretty good reason as to why he was sitting suspiciously in a dark corner of the inn. 

He’d deal with that when the situation arose.

 

***

 

_Mercer stood above him, looking down on him like a cat would a mouse, mockingly, as if he were just food to be played with. His sword was drawn and at his side, relaxed but ready to strike, knowing that Ferion could do nothing to stop him._

_“I really should be thanking you, Ferion.” Mercer remarked, lowering himself onto a knee closer to Ferion’s eye level. He bent closer and chuckled. “None of this would have been possible without you.” He gently placed the tip of his blade against Ferion’s ribs and offered a pitying smile. “I’ll be sure to send Brynjolf your regards, though it’s a shame he couldn’t be here to see you off.”_

_Ferion’s eyes widened and he coughed, choking on the icy pain and sudden rush of blood and bile making its way up his throat. Mercer had driven his sword right through him without hesitation. Hot tears welled up in his eyes, warming his quickly cooling skin. Every sensation was blinding and sharp and painful, he felt hot with rage and betrayal._

_He cried out sharply when Mercer tore his blade out of him, the edges of his vision turned black and he felt sick. The last thing he heard before everything faded was the sound of  the door to the Sanctum screeching closed._

Ferion shot up with a gasp, reaching for the blade at his hip. He stopped abruptly at the way the movement stretched his side and sent a harsh wave of pain across his whole being. He hissed and curled in, and pressed his head to his knees and breathed heavily. 

_Mercer._

He trusted Mercer. He was his _Guild Master_ for Auri-El’s sake. So much had happened, it was overwhelming. How was he _alive_? Mercer had all but skewered him down there. Speaking of, where was he? He looked around at the familiar surroundings and sighed in relief. He was outside the ruins. But how did he get outside?

He pushed a leg under himself and slowly, achingly, rose to his feet. He felt sluggish and hazy, with a quiet nausea lingering in the back of his throat. His hands fumbled as he searched through his various pouches on his armor that seemed (mostly) intact. As far as he could tell, nothing was missing, which was surprising. Mercer was a thief after all, add on traitor to that and everyone could expect empty pockets. 

“Come on, come on…” 

He made a soft noise of triumph when his numb hands brushed against a potion bottle. He painstakingly removed the cork from the top and urgently brought the bottle to his lips. The liquid burned as it went down, bitter, but left a soothingly warm feeling through his body. He winced as the wounds on his side and shoulder slowly stitched themselves back together. While it wouldn’t be  a permanent fix, it would hold him until he could get to a proper healer. 

The sound of footsteps on the snow made him turn sharply, drawing his sword as he faced the potential foe. 

“Woah, easy there. I mean you no harm.” 

Ferion was shocked to be met with the sight of the Dark Elf from before. Karliah. Her arms were held up in a show of surrender, and her posture as relaxed as one could expect from someone in her situation. He expected her to be hostile, seeing as she did already _shoot_ him, _and_  he was previously working with Mercer. She had every right, not to mention opportunity, to kill him, no questions asked. That’s what he would’ve done. 

He lowered his sword and returned it to its place at his side. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be going after Mercer?” He bent down and started gathering his things. Various poisons and lockpicks that had been strewn about during his search for a health potion. 

“I need your help.” 

Ferion straightened back up and rebuckled the pouches on his person. 

“What makes you think that I can help you?” He asked, though not waiting for an answer, as he trudged past her. He was going to get as far away from this gods forsaken sanctum as he could. Windhelm was his best bet, with the exception of it being the home to countless racist Nords. He could rest there and then head back to the Guild. With any luck, he’d be able to convince his fellow members that Mercer was a traitor. _Yeah, that’ll work. I’ll just walk in there and tell them that their trusted, long time friend and leader has been lying to them all for years and tried to kill him._

The light crunch of snow was the only sound Karliah’s quick approach made. She jogged after Ferion and pleaded with him as he kept up his harsh trod through the snow.  

“You can’t go back to the Guild. Not after everything that’s happened!”

He pulled up his hood against the biting wind. “And why is that? If I go back and tell everyone what happened, we can take Mercer down! Make him pay for what he’s done!”

Karliah grabbed him by the elbow and roughly brought them to a stop. Her eyes were blazing and she gripped his arm hard enough that her knuckles were white. “Don’t you think I already tried that? You seem to forget, but I’ve already been through this before. I am _not_ doing it again.” Her hand fell to her side and she bowed her head, letting her hood obscure her face. “If you go back now, you’ll lose everything. Just like I did. By now, Mercer has already told everyone lies about you, just like he did me. They all think you’re a murderer, you going back now is exactly what he wants, if he doesn’t already believe you dead.” She once again reached out a hand, but this time she laid it gently on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.” She murmured. 

He turned away from the Dunmer. He could feel his hands shaking, he could feel nothing but burning hot _anger_ . Anger at Mercer, at himself, gods, even some selfish part of him was angry at _Brynjolf_ of all people. That idiot should have been here with him. _Gods,_ he _missed_ him. 

With a strangled yell, Ferion hurled a fireball as hard as he could. The tree in front of him went up in flames, but he didn’t stop there. Fireball after fireball left his hands, melting the snow around them and scorching the dead grass beneath. He screamed. He swore. He kept going until he was completely drained of magicka, until he couldn’t feel his hands, until he couldn’t feel _anything_. 

He slumped to the ground and lay there. His rage had simmered down to a dull throb, and he could finally see the extent of the damage he had caused to the surrounding area. But he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was tired. _So tired._ He’d never used so much fire in his _life,_ and he wasn’t planning on doing it again. 

Karliah knelt beside him and hesitantly started to speak. “We can still fix this.” She stressed. “We just need more evidence. More than just our word against his.” She reached into her pouch and pulled out a blue potion, handing it over to Ferion.

Ferion sat up and gratefully accepted the potion from Karliah and drank, feeling his magicka restores fill back up. 

“Thanks.”

He absently put the cork back onto the potion bottle, deep in thought. If what Karliah said was true, everyone at the Guild either thought he was dead, or thought he betrayed Mercer. Mercer’s obviously better at lying and the _entire_ Guild trusts him more, so there’d be no way to plead his innocence before Mercer _killed_ him. 

He couldn’t go back. That much was clear. He had to leave, cut ties, _disappear._ If Mercer was willing to wait this long to catch Karliah, odds were he’d do the same to Ferion if he caught wind of his existence. Sure, he’d miss Brynn, Vex, and Delvin, _everyone really,_ but what else could he do? There was just no-

“ _Ferion_.” 

Thoughts interrupted and mind made up, he pushed himself up and off the charred ground. He adjusted the sword on his hip and slung his bag over his shoulder and started walking. Away from Karliah, away from the decimated area, and away from the place that changed the course of his life as he knew it. 

“Ferion, where are you going? We have to-” 

“ _No,_ Karliah.”, he paused and ran a hand over his face. “I just- I just need some time.” 

“But-”

“ _Alone._ ” 

 

***

 

The Nord sitting in the dark corner of the crowded inn shifted his gaze over the sea of people. The Sleeping Giant was an absolute zoo. He could see Delphine weaving through the many inebriated patrons, dodging elbows and tankards of mead left and right. She approached him after a long while of delivering drinks and food to various tables. 

Delphine gave him a nod of acknowledgment. “Verrik.”

Verrik looked up at her briefly from where he was examining one of his gauntlets. “Delphine.” he stated, before going back to buffing out a scratch on the previously pristine ebony. 

He looked up again as the woman cleared her throat. 

“Yes, Delphine?” he sighed, “Was there something you needed? Another bandit camp you need taken care of? Or would you like me to shine your shoes for you?” Verrik took a piece of parchment, possibly a bounty, out one of many pouches and waved her off, ignoring the indignant sneer on her face. “I’m very busy right now.” 

Delphine scoffed and swiped the paper from his hand, earning a grunt of surprise from the larger man, and held it up. It was completely blank. “Oh, _very_ busy it seems.” She hooked a thumb back behind her, towards the door to the inn. “If you’re not going to order anything, leave. You’re taking up a table that could be used by a _paying_ customer.” 

Verrik stood up with a chuckle, his sly smile hidden behind his helmet. “Fair enough, Delphine. You know it’ll be a hot day in Skyrim when _I’m_ the one paying _you_.” 

He threw a small wave behind him as he opened the door leading outside to the streets of Riverwood. The cold wind bit at him, even through his armor, and sharp snowflakes bounced off of him with small melodious tones. The sky was dark gray and clouds were floating dismally in the air. While it was not yet night, dark was quickly approaching, and with it came lower and lower temperatures. And, unfortunately for him, he just got kicked out of the only inn in the very small town. 

Verrik sighed. He was used to travelling at night, sure, but he would rather travel by day than risk getting jumped by bandits that he couldn’t see. Resigning himself to his fate, he started to make his way to the northern gate. Whiterun seemed like a fantastic idea, he’d go get a drink at The Bannered Mare, visit Vilkas. 

“They’re gonna kill me for taking so long to visit.” 

He knew they would, at least Farkas would try. He hadn’t been back to Whiterun for months, between running around killing bandits for very small rewards, and helping a tribe of Orcs for a much bigger reward, he’d been a bit preoccupied. But it was definitely worth it. He admired the smooth ebony going up his arm. Definitely worth it. 

 

***

 

 

 


	3. What a Welcome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! It’s been a little while, but I’m not too worried because no one’s really reading this, so no one expects me to do anything! So we’re good! Thank you for reading if you’re still here! Also who’s enjoying the quarantine? I’ll try to keep writing throughout this disaster, as I have nothing else to do anyway. Yikes.

 

     The night air was filled with the dulcet sounds of crickets and the distant howling of wolves. A soft breeze blew by and gently rustled the tall grass that grew throughout the plains of Whiterun hold. The lights of the city weren’t far off, and he could almost taste the sweetness of mead and the comfort of a warm bed that awaited him there. 

    He sucked in a breath and let it out with a deep sigh, the warm exhale bouncing off the front of his helmet and leaving behind an uncomfortable stuffiness he couldn’t wait to be rid of. As nice- and necessary- the armor was, it was absolutely stifling. It was plenty easy to ignore in the midst of a battle, as he was much too distracted with staying alive. But wearing it while trudging from city to city, contract to contract? There wasn’t much else to think about. However, the weight of the armor was almost comforting these days. It wasn’t easy to get past the discomfort, but once he did he could appreciate how reliable the armor was, how fortunate he was to have it. 

    He made his way down the road to Whiterun at a relaxed pace. Well, more resigned than relaxed. His Ebony armor clanked softly with each step, but every few steps made sharp contact with a cobblestone on the road. Verrik winced at every misstep, and while he knew this road was marginally safer than many others, he couldn’t help but worry about a stray bandit ruining his night. His luck in an unfortunate number of other similar situations justified his concerns. 

    Finally, the gates of Whiterun loomed before him. He heaved his heavy body up the incline leading to the entrance to the city, thinking tired thoughts of the Bannered Mare. 

He raised a hand in greeting to the pair of guards at the door, receiving a nod from one more inclined to respond. 

“Could sure use a warm bed right about now. But no, I get saddled with the night shift.” The guard on the left side of the entrance grouched as he went to open the door. 

Verrik couldn’t help but agree. And sympathize. Nights in Skyrim were harsh, and standing at attention in the cold wasn’t a position he’d trade anything to be in. 

He clapped his gloved hand on the guard’s shoulder as he passed, “Strength, brother. Soon you will be in your barracks, tankard full and bed warm.” 

With that, he made his way fully into the city. 

Verrik sighed at the sight, content with nostalgia. It was late, meaning the city was not its usual bustling self, but it was still just as beautiful. He walked past Adrianne’s shop, briefly entertaining the idea of getting his sword sharpened in the morning but dismissing the thought almost as soon as it came. Eorlund would have his hide if he went to anyone other than him, especially if he was in Whiterun after such a long time. 

He was brought out of his thoughts, his pauldron making contact with someone roughly. He looked up, ready to either apologize or avoid an altercation. 

“Watch where you’re going, whelp.” 

He bristled and looked into silver, war-painted eyes. _Vilkas._

Verrik’s not surprised that Vilkas didn’t recognize him. It’s been a few months and a few sets of armor since he’s seen _any_ of the companions. He couldn’t help but feel a little miffed at that but he let it go, knowing that Vilkas had no way of knowing who he was. 

“Well that’s no way of greeting a friend you haven’t seen in months now, is it?” His voice echoed through his helmet and came out with a tinny edge, almost sounding like grating metal. 

The man before him narrowed his eyes in confusion and tried looking deeper into the black visored helmet. “Verrik? Is that you under there?” 

“As opposed to who else, wolf? I thought at the very least you’d recognize me.” 

Vilkas scoffed. “Says the one covered head to toe in armor.” 

He grinned and tapped his gauntlet against his helmet. “It adds to my mysterious allure, Vilkas. Something you’d of course know nothing about.” 

He’d missed this. Friendly banter with a close friend was hard to come by when you spend your days clearing out bandit encampments and going on wild goose chases for Jarls. 

Maybe he’d settle down for a while, do some jobs for Kodlak, help the old man out at the forge- just simple busy work. 

Verrik deflated tiredly, feeling the heavy armor weigh him down more than it had all day. As much as he’d like to visit his friends and catch up, he’d have to hurry to the Bannered Mare and rent a room before they were all taken, if they weren’t already. Rooms sold out quick, especially on cold nights like these.

    Vilkas sighed and turned around. “Come on, shield-brother, I’m sure your bed in the whelps’ quarters is still empty.” He shook his head with a small smile. “If a little dusty.” 

     Verrik grinned beneath his helmet. He should have known that he’d be welcomed back, just like always. 

    Vilkas led the way back to Jorrvaskr, the home of the Companions. It had been much too long since he’d last been there, and he was excited to be back. Jorrvaskr was one of the only places that have ever felt like home to him, one of the few places he felt like he belonged. 

    He stepped in the door behind Vilkas and was met with a familiar sight. The room was dim, but the large fireplace in the center warmed the hall and bathed the interior with a comforting light. The long table was set, Farkas and Aela seated on the far right end, caught up in an animated discussion, Farkas gesticulating wildly.

    _“I’ll take your gods damned head off!”_

Ah, another familiar sight. Njada was chasing Athis across the room, holding a sword above her head. A training sword, thank Talos. The Dark elf scurried away from her, almost making it to the end of the table before his hip collided with the corner roughly. He stumbled, giving Njada the edge she needed to catch up with him and she shoved her foot against his back and _pushed_. 

    Athis was sent sprawling to the floor and the Nord woman stood above him, one foot on his back and the dull sword pointed at the back of his head. 

    “I yield, I yield!” Athis brought his hands up to cover the back of his head. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it, I swear!” 

    Njada brought the flat of the blade down hard on his knuckles, earning a yelp of pain from the Dunmer below her. “Apologies won't save your sorry hide now, Elf!” 

    Verrik looked around to gauge the reactions of the other Companions. Everyone else was either oblivious to the fight, or just unconcerned. It had to be the former, because even he was concerned for Athis. He remembered Athis and Njada fighting quite frequently when he was around last, but this seemed like a little more than competitive sparring. 

    He opened his mouth to break up the fight, knowing that Njada was obviously upset about something, and she wasn’t exactly seeing clearly. 

    “Njada! Enough, let him up-” 

    His protest was drowned out by a monstrous boom. No, it was more of a _roar._ The sound shook the very walls of the building, paintings and weapons alike falling to the floor. 

    It was unlike _anything_ he’d ever heard before. The noise was _terrifying-_ it struck him straight to the core, an icy dread that shocked him like lightning. He could only freeze in place, fear bolting his feet to the ground. 

    **_“Zu’u lost daal!”_ **

    The words drove him to his knees, as if they were physically pushing him down, dark and full of _rage_ \- **_’I have returned!’_ ** \- He tore off his helmet and threw it aside, gasping for breath and willing the words to just _stop_ . His ears rang, the roars seemed like they had bounced off the inside of his helmet and amplified, banging like drums- just getting _louder and louder._ He squeezed his eyes shut and braced his fist on the floor.

    Slowly, the angry roars faded out into the distance and the sound of the crackling fire creeped back in. It was an eerie contrast to the deafening noise just moments before. Verrik looked up and around the hall, worried for his shield-siblings. 

    Njada was helping Athis up off the floor, their argument forgotten in the chaos. Skjor and Kodlak had just come up from the living quarters that were in the lower level of Jorrvaskr, looking just as shaken as even the youngest companions. 

    His survey was cut short by a body blocking his view. It was then that he realized that he was still on his knees in the middle of the room. 

    “Verrik? What are you doing here?” 

    _Farkas._

    Farkas, Vilkas’ twin brother, was standing above him, a worried look on his face and a hand extended. “Are you okay?” 

    Farkas was always so caring and always worried. Like a loyal puppy. _How ironic._

    Verrik took the hand and let himself be hoisted up, not shocked at the strength of the man before him like he was when he was a newblood.  

    When he was righted, he shook his head. He could still hear the words from before as clear as day, the grating voice causing his head to ache. ‘ _I have returned’._ Who has returned? What could that possibly mean? He had a feeling that this could be bigger than anything he could hope to understand. 

“Verrik?”

The sound of Farkas’ voice jostled him out of his thoughts, and he raked an hand through his hair, tuning back in to the man in front of him. “Sorry, what?” He grimaced at the rough sound of his voice, still thick with tension. 

    “It’s late.” he said. “You should get some rest, friend. I’m sure it's been a long day for you.”

    “Yeah.” He muttered. “That’s putting it lightly.” 

    Verrik bent down and scooped up his helmet from where he’d thrown it previously. He dusted it off and followed after Farkas towards the living quarters. His head was still throbbing dully, making him thankful that he was only mere seconds  away from a soft bed.

    With a quiet goodnight to Farkas, he turned off to the door to the whelps’ sleeping quarters. His tired feet dragged him to one of the empty beds he vaguely remembered sleeping in once or twice before, and he fell heavily into it. His armor screeched appreciatively as his body made contact with the firm bed and he grunted, unhappy with the thought of scratching his armor, but too tired to care.  His eyes drifted closed and he fell into the blissful dark with a contented sigh.   


End file.
